


Intimacy

by Feynite



Series: Canon-ish Solavellan [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fingering, Oral Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 05:44:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5363567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Palace is a pit full of very pretty vipers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intimacy

The Winter Palace is a pit full of very pretty vipers.

It’s exhausting, slogging through the politics of Orlais. Not just the tedium of trying to make small talk with strangers (an art which few Dalish get much practice at), and not just the strain of trying to remember the right etiquette for the environment; the right bows and the hidden nuances in gestures, how to turn her head, how to straddle the line between ‘dangerous wild elf’ and ‘respectable authority figure’. 

It’s not even the challenge of darting through sealed off exits and scaling up to balconies and listening in on gossiping nobles.

No. The most exhausting thing about it all is that it even exists; that these people can play their games of life and death, and trade what is most precious in their petty, scrambling grabs for power. Influence. That they can gain ‘respectability’ whilst being the most deplorable assemblage of wretches in the entirety of Thedas.

That is exhausting.

But when she stands on a balcony and a hand extends towards her in offering, she cannot turn down the offer of a dance with him. Not for anything. And the arms around her are warm, and the steps are easy. No calculation between them. It is an indulgence, pure and simple in that moment, and, miraculously, for a few minutes, she isn’t exhausted.

The world isn’t terrible.

The Winter Palace, very briefly, doesn’t seem so awful as it did.

She wants more.

When the steps finish, she leans in, and he meets her halfway, and they kiss.

Her eyes flutter closed, and she loses herself in the feel of him. The gentle press of his lips. The exploratory coaxing of his tongue. The way he shifts his grip on her, and rests both hands against her shoulderblades, and sighs when their mouths finally part.

She looks at him a moment, turning her eyes over his features. It’s baffling, she thinks, that anyone could ever take him for something plain. What those pointed ears distract people from seeing.

But her ears are pointed, too. And what she sees when she looks at him is a marvel, lost and drifting; and what she offers, when she reaches for him, is a tether. Because to lose someone so impossibly wondrous to whatever sea it is that pulls at him - the Fade, she supposes - is not a fate the world deserves.

It’s not a fate that  _he_  deserves, either.

Tonight, though, there is no distance. Tonight he is sharp, and smiling, and a little giddy. His lips taste like wine, but he doesn’t seem clouded or befuddled.

If anything, he seems more  _present_  than she could ever recall him seeming before.

 _Stay with me tonight,_  she wants to ask him.

But she’s the Inquisitor, and he’s an apostate whose only safety, here and now, is his connection to the Inquisition. She has never wanted him more badly. Not even in terms of attraction - though that glint in his eyes is doing remarkable things to her lower regions - but in terms of comfort. This place is exhausting, but he rejuvenates her. It is full of humans who think nothing of her kind. Some of the worst of their sort. It’s a den of murderous, selfish nobles built on ground that had once been her people’s, by all rights. There is part of her that is frayed raw and terrified to be here.

And she doesn’t feel it, when she’s with him.

But she won’t take her comfort at the expense of his. It would be deeply unwise for him to risk refusing her anything, here and now.

So she won’t ask. She can’t. He is no position to refuse, if it’s not what he wants.

Carefully, she begins to pull back.

He swallows, though, and to her surprise, leans in to follow her retreat.

Just a little.

She pauses.

Considers.

“If you do not wish to take this further, we should stop now,” she says, and hopes it’s the right way to put it. No demand. No potential judgement, or looming threat of disappointment. A warning.

It is his wish that matters. She lets her own lie as it does; implied, but not pressed upon.

A night spent being mindful of her words, and she doesn’t think she’s ever chosen a sentence so carefully before. But right then she’s grateful for the delicacy she has learned - is still learning - in such matters. 

For a moment, she thinks he  _will_  pull back. 

It’s almost a relief. At least if he does, she can be entirely certain that he hasn’t felt the least bit coerced. But then, it’s Solas; danger or no, he would be likely to respond to any perceived coercion with at least a little bit of outrage. A furrowed brow, or scowl, or even sneer of disdain, no matter the danger.

Instead, he grins a little, and steals another kiss. Steals her breath along with it.

When they part again she discovers she’s clutching his jacket so hard it’s been pulled askew.

“Probably true,” he tells her; and his own invitation, and warning, is quite clear.

Reaching up, she caresses his cheek. Offers him a tentative smile of her own.

“You know you can refuse me?” she nevertheless offers, as plainly as she can. “I would never…”

He catches her hand, and presses a kiss into her palm. When he looks at her with his sharp, sharp eyes, a moment of perfect understanding passes between them. She doesn’t know how or why, but she knows, in an instant, that he’s stood where she is before. That he’s held power over someone, and has been terrified of abusing it.

That he sees her sincerity, and offers his own in return.

“If we do this, it will not be because of what you are, or because of what I am. It will be because of _who._  Because we are two people drawn to one another, and whatever else may… complicate that, there is no pretence, no ulterior motive in either of our affections,” he says, holding her gaze. 

In the moonlight he looks pale, and a little otherwordly. In her arms, he feels steady and warm and solid, and so very  _real._

“Is there?” he asks, quietly.

“No,” she confirms, her own voice soft. “There is not.”

He is still for a moment, then. As if somehow he has become the one who is afraid of manipulating her; of holding some unseen advantage over her head. It’s a strange turn, and one that doesn’t make much sense, really. But she feels like denying it would shatter the precarious moment. Like the only response he could make to that would be to withdraw, however inexplicable it all might seem.

She doesn’t want that. She doesn’t think  _he_  wants that, either.

Carefully, she leans in. And when she presses another kiss to him, it’s gentle as can be. It’s soft and sweet, and she tries to breathe all of her fondness for him into it. All of the warmth, all of the comfort, all of the gratitude she has ever felt for his companionship. His insights. His unexpected and profound beauty.

She moves her lips against his, and he answers her in turn. It’s the softest exchange of kisses she’s ever had, and yet the warmth it sends through her almost stifles her breath anyway.

“Solas,” she murmurs, when they part. “I lo-”

He cuts her off with a kiss. More fierce, this time. Broken up into pieces, a little ragged and desperate, as if he doesn’t know what to do except press his lips to hers over and over again until the world becomes as simple as this. The two of them, with the ground below, and the sky above, and their arms wrapped tightly around one another.

When he finally relents, their lips are red and his face looks flushed. Their breaths are both a little ragged.

She doesn’t try to say it again.

Instead she threads her fingers through his own, and tugs him gently into the hallway with her.

It’s late enough that she can retire without incident. Her hand still tingles from the effort of closing a rift, and she was tired, she thinks. Just a moment ago, she was definitely tired. But now she feels electrified, and very awake. Alert as she keeps hold on Solas and leads him through all the shadowed corridors and paths she’d found, to the guest quarters where they are being housed.

They draw a few glances. But two uniformed elves are not much to look at, and even if she’s recognized as the Inquisitor, what should it matter? What will these Orlesians do? Gossip about her taking her ‘manservant’ to her bed? As if she hasn’t heart a dozen such rumours of such things and far worse surrounding almost every single noble in attendance.

She keeps ahold of him, and hears so distinctly every step he takes behind her as she finds the rooms meant for her.

It’s not a flurry of passion when they get inside. She checks the windows, and the other exits, and Solas silently puts up wards. They have been treating Halamshiral like the most dangerous of wilds, full of hostile creatures, and it’s served them well since they arrived. The chambers are… polite. She’s learned enough to gather that they are a bit dismissive, as well; nice enough to serve without causing offence, but deliberately simplified. She can hear the heavily accented voices in her head right now, ‘oh but we did not know what would serve the  _elven sensibilities_  of our guest! Elves are such simple folk, you know, we would not wish to overwhelm her!’ A sly jab at her ‘common’ origins and lack of refinement.

Still. At least they didn’t go so far as to decorate the room with blasphemous statuary or insipid paintings of ‘savage’ elves running around the Dales in loin cloths and laughable vallaslin. She’d already seen enough of such things scattered throughout the palace. 

Solas puts up the last ward, and she watches him work. The way his brows narrow as he concentrates. His lips thin a little with his focus, but the magic comes to him. When it ripples through the Veil, something in him eases. As if he can feel a little lighter. Just for one brief exhalation.

The magic flares blue, and spills across his features. He is poetry in motion. Smooth as a dancer. Artful as his paintings.

It makes her think of dreams, and dreamers, and what it must be like to reshape reality so fluidly - to come  _so close_  to being able to make what you wish of the world. And yet, to always fall short, because the world is vast and you are still, in the end, just as small as everyone else.

He looks at her. She wonders what he sees, because his breath catches. There is a light in his eyes. His hands flex, as if he wants to touch her.

 _Wish granted,_  she thinks, and reaches out for him.

He leans towards her. They meet with a kiss. She takes his hands again and pulls him close. 

With the spark ignited, she anticipates passion. But what comes is tenderness, instead. Careful, and sweet, and lingering. She pulls the gloves off of his hands. He returns the favour, and she trails her hands up his shoulders. Toys with the folds of his jacket.

Looks him in the eye, and silently asks once more, before this next step, if he would like to withdraw.

He shakes his head, and answers her with another kiss.

There, then, the passion comes; a tide that swallows her up as she welcomes him. They slow once more as they strip off their uniforms. There isn’t much alternative; too many belts and buckles and sashes, and they are too gentle with one another, when it comes right down to it, for anything else. But she enjoys it, she finds. Removing all the layers between them, until the warm skin of his arms presses against her bare back.

She breathes. Unrestricted, unconstrained. All the heavy places where that damn uniform kept pressing into her are freed. It’s a surprise how much of a relief she finds it. How blessedly wonderful it is to just be in her skin, with him. Just the two of them, and all the things they most simply are.

“Ma vhenan,” she calls him.

He takes her face between his hands, and looks at her so intently; almost desperately, as if he is trying to press this moment firmly enough into his mind that he will never lose it. It makes her breath hitch. Makes her heart ache, as she glimpses some of the deep and mysterious hurt lying within him.

Not that many of their people make it through life without accruing at least a fair few near-deadly scars.

She winds her arms around his waist.

Presses close.

And waits.

Gradually, the intensity of his expression eases into something softer, again. He touches her as if he cannot get enough of the experience. As if every brush - even the most innocuous ones - is a marvel. As if he has never felt skin before. Never tasted it before. As if her hands upon him are a wonder. But it’s not the novelty or hesitance of a first time tumble. 

It’s the reverence of someone who can scarcely believe what is happening to them.

She wants to say the words. To tell him what he means to her, but she thinks it would overwhelm him.

So she presses them into her kisses instead. She nudges him towards the bed - fine sheets, but less comfortable than Skyhold’s - and when he reaches for her, she catches his hands.

“Let me,” she asks.

He swallows.

“I should… it would be…”

He seems uncommonly flustered. She waits patiently for him to order his thoughts, and stops circling her thumb across his wrist when it becomes clear that it’s distracting him. How long, she wonders, has it been since someone touched him like this? How rare is it for someone to touch him kindly  _at all?_  He holds himself so politely apart. Hands usually clasped behind his back. Shoulders rigid. Attitude assessing, and so neatly detached from all his emotionality - until it isn’t, anymore.

“You can let go,” she tells him. “I’ll take care of you.”

A broken little breath escapes him. 

“That is a bolder claim than you know,” he whispers.

She smiles, reassuringly.

“Let me prove it,” she asks.

He searches her eyes for a moment.

“I suppose that would only be fair,” he concedes.

 _No pressure or anything_ , she thinks. But she finds in this, she is unexpectedly confident. She kisses and caresses. Takes her time, and whispers affection and compliments to him, the fullness of her admiration. Adoration. She wants to see him tremble, to see him give in. She lavishes her attention on his neck, his nipples, and the soft skin of his inner thighs. When he reaches for her she catches his hands, and kisses them, but presses them pointedly back down onto the mattress.

When she finally wraps her fingers around the length of him, his hips twitch. He shudders, just a little. His eyes flutter closed.

 _Perfect,_  she thinks.

She goes slow, still. Draws her touch up from the base of him, and back down again before she leans in and closes her lips over his head. She puts her tongue to good use. Then she has to move her hands to his hips, instead. When she sucks at him he inhales, sharply.

“Stop, stop,” he asks.

She lifts off of him, and lets him go, concerned.

“I am… I…” he breathes, and before she can get a word out he reaches for her. Frayed and a little frantic. His hands close around her arms and tug. Drawing her up the bed.

“I’m sorry,” she says. The worry seeps into her tone as she wonders where she went wrong. “I only wanted to-”

“You did nothing wrong,” he assures her, cutting her off. Then he laughs. An unnervingly self-deprecating sound. 

“Solas?”

“Nothing at all,” he murmurs, and kisses her.

She wonders if this is… tied in with something. Some of those deep and dark wounds of his. She lets him hold her and brushes her hands just gently over his back.

“It’s alright,” she tells him. “We don’t have to do anything at all, you know. We can just sleep, if you prefer.”  _Or you can go to your own room,_  she thinks, but she’s not certain if she can say that without somehow backhandedly implying that if he’s not going to put out, he can show himself the door. Which is the last thing she wants, really.

His fingers trail their way down her spine.

“I want this,” he says. And he says it so fiercely that she can’t possibly doubt him.

She leans back to look at him.

“I want it, too. But there’s no hurry,” she tells him. “Tonight. Another night. A year from now. Two. I suspect I will still want you, no matter the wait.”

Her attempt at comfort only makes his face fall, though.

“I wish I could give you everything,” he says.

She squeezes him, briefly. Smiles reassuringly.

“It’s not all or nothing, ma vhenan,” she tells him. “We can work up to ‘everything’. For now, let’s simply do whatever will not distress you.”

He lets out another self-deprecating chuckle. But it turns into a sigh, and then he presses his brow against hers. And kisses her again. Thirsty for the touch, it seems, in spite of it all. 

“Would it be better if I just used my hands?” she wonders.

He shakes his head a little.

“It would be better if I used mine,” he tells her, trailing his fingers down her chest. He detours to one of her breasts, and palms it, rubbing his thumb across her nipple.

If that suits him more, she’s certainly not going to object.

He nudges her, then, and she obliges him. Turns to her side and lets him spoon up behind her. She presses back a bit more readily than he expects, it seems; letting his erection slide, hot and hard, between her thighs. It draws another sharp breath from him. Her skin’s slick with sweat from an evening spent running and fighting and dancing and politicking, and her arousal has only contributed to the moisture between her legs. 

“Alright?” she asks him, wondering if he’ll withdraw from this, too.

He smooths a hand over her hip, in wordless answer, and dips his fingers towards her folds.

His clever, artful fingers.

They explore her carefully. Trace across her entrance, and brush softly upwards, before circling and pressing at her more intently. Discovering the places that make her breaths break. Make her hips twist. Make her own hands press against his wrist, and clutch at the sheets. He keeps up his ministrations until she’s grinding against him, and squeezing her thighs just enough to make his own breaths ragged again.

His hips twitch, then rock.

She presses downwards onto his fingers.

The heat builds up beautifully, and she wants him so much. She wants more of him. All of him.

But she won’t ask for what he doesn’t want to give.

He twists his wrist, and presses firmly against her, inside and out. When she comes it’s with a wash of sparks and a cry that surprises her, a desperate call of his name, broken with pleasure.

When he thrusts against her again, sliding against her thighs, she slips her own hand down, and brushes her fingers over the hardened flesh still burning between her legs.

That’s all it takes for him to spill out, clutching her and shuddering.

They lay with one another, trembling with the aftershocks for a long moment.

“Thank you, ma vhenan,” she finally manages to breathe out.

He makes a tiny, cut-off sound somewhere between a laugh and a huff of disbelief.

Whatever he would say, though, it’s lost when she carefully manages to turn towards him. She catches his face between her hands, and kisses him soundly. Drawing his bottom lip between her teeth for a moment, before letting him go, only to kiss him again.

“That was  _perfect_ ,” she tells him, smoothing her thumbs across his cheekbones.

He stares at her a moment, and she hopes he can see that she means every word. Because it was. Whatever else she might want, this is enough, too. More than enough. That he wants to be with her. That he trusts her this far, and tries to trust her further - it means something.

 _He_  means something.

Inching forward, he returns her kiss with surprising tentativeness.

“I am sorry,” he says.

She shakes her head.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” she insists.

“There is,” he says, brushing a hand down her back. Then he sighs. “But perhaps, not tonight.”

With a sigh of her own, she leans back against the bed.

“Stay with me?” she asks.

His expression cracks. For one moment, she almost thinks he might weep. But the moment is gone so quickly, it could just be her imagination. His brows curve, yes, but perhaps that intent look is only the weight of old wounds, and new passions. 

He rests against the pillows beside her, and nods.

But for some he can’t seem to find the words to simply say that he will.


End file.
